


No Place for the Weary Kind

by kt_teller



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Blood, Multi, Murder, Sadness, idk lots of blood and teen angst bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4515579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kt_teller/pseuds/kt_teller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jax being hella young, and committing his first murder for the MC. Not quite legal, he's nothing more than a scared kid succumbing to the pressures around him. Brief mention of Tara when all he needed was to see her after being plagued by the death he inflicted. One shot- pun intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Place for the Weary Kind

The gun was in his hand– all he needed to do was pull the trigger. Blood would stain his shoes; he spent  **so long**  cleaning them.

That wasn’t the reason he was scared– everyone knew it. He fought the trembles that shook his arm, rattling the metal in hand. It just felt so  _heavy_ ; if he couldn’t bare the weight of a pistol, what made him think he could support a lifeless body upon his shoulders?

This was a formality- the club had scattered bodies across the night stricken concrete—the moon robbed the pools of crimson of their color; appearing as black sludge.

It  _oozed_  out; slowing—pooling underneath the bodies as hearts stopped beating. They caused this—his brothers caused this. They were his family, the men who lifted him in such drastic lows; supportive hands covered in blood. There was no gentle touch to urge him to a safe place now; just a **voice** ; settling in his ear, inches from his neck.

It was a whisper, could barely be heard above the man on his knees—eyes wide at the infant with a gun.

“Time’s tickin’, son—badges gonna be here any minute.”

Silence —- **contemplation** —- hesitation.

He simply couldn’t take his eyes off the man before him; white eyes contrasting against the dark skin that camouflaged in with the night. They pleaded, hoping the child would succumb to the weight he struggled against. Clay’s words hung around him where an arm would normally settle in; threatening to choke if he went against the orders.

“This nigger got your friend, our  **brother**  killed. You gotta make that right. This blood spilled ain’t wrong, it’s retribution. These  _shitheads_ gotta learn—you mess with the Sons, you meet Mr. Mayhem.” Should he protest? Should Jax voice his apprehension? JT never forced the gun into another man’s hand- only the weak pulled a trigger. –But this wasn’t his Daddy’s club anymore; it was Clay’s.

Every pair of eyes was on him, waiting for the Prince’s lips to object. This man was sentenced to death—could a royal decree change tonight’s fate?

“You want me to bag him, boss?”

A cautioned hand shot up to Tig—-  _wait_ , he’ll do it.

“This is a message; no black on the street is gonna come knockin’ on the Reapers front door after this. You end this here.”

He ended this—it was Jax’s decision. He could put a stop to the violence with a single bullet; it’s what his father would have wanted. One man—one pull against the trigger; one more body to stack atop the pile the MC already created.

Time did not stop; his world didn’t slow for a moment for the teen to collect himself. The bullet simply escaped him; the recoil jerking his wrist. His eyes searched for Opie’s; they weren’t to be found. The boy was already heading back to the bikes, his steps a hint quicker than the rest of the club.

He wasn’t the only one ashamed by Jax’s actions.

“You did good—next time’ll be easier.”

{…}

_ Next time? _

“I’ll meet you home.”

He needed to see her.


End file.
